


Strangest Beauty Cries

by breatheinsync



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Gen, Longing, The start of romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-02
Updated: 2013-10-02
Packaged: 2017-12-28 05:50:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/988451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breatheinsync/pseuds/breatheinsync
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the face of demons and witches, it's easy to set aside your grief and pretend it doesn't existence. But when the night arrives and the mind is lulled into sleep, it awakens with a vengeance and rips you apart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strangest Beauty Cries

**Author's Note:**

> (A/N: I started writing this after "Blood Moon" but I got caught up in another story so it's being posted now. Plus, "For the Triumph of Evil..." doesn't really change it much so I hope you enjoy it! PS. If you leave me comments, I'm guaranteed to adore you.)

_They start out as branches, thin, a vague shade of brown or so she thinks. Her feet are launching her forward and she can see the rough bark slowly peel away and now they’re fingers, attached to hands that grab at her. The world’s twisted, tortured into a nightmare landscape and she’s fleeing from something that is too powerful for something as simple as a name. The wind’s howling in tune to the monster, mocking her as she feels the harsh chill scraping against her cheekbones, cutting. Corbin’s detached skulls looms tauntingly beside her, whispering her name, eyes open and sizzling, blood dripping from the stub that used to be his neck. It’s on her, it’s everywhere, it’s on the trees and the leaves and the ground and there is no sky above her, only emptiness. The next step is her last, her toes finding the edge of a root and dragging her down and everything is slippery-slick and she’s drowning in the blood._

_Somewhere inside of her chest, the fear gathers to form a crystalline horror, spreads until it’s bubbling its way up her throat, swirling in her mouth, coating her tongue with terror and bursting from her mouth. There are hands wrapped around her throat, beads of sweat clinging desperately to her chilled skin and the stillness is shattered by another piercing scream. She thinks her eyes are open but the darkness is never-ending, draped sumptuously over the surroundings, over her body and her legs are scrambling to free themselves from the heavy weight covering them and more hands. Her lips snap open and her desperate cry echoes in the room and she’s trembling, shivering, no, no…_

 

she’s being shaken. There are noises here, she can hear them clearly, and the shrieks are her own, but there’s something softer.

 

“Lieutenant,” a whisper, but it slips through everything else that sets her body shaking against something much stronger than temperature. She’s waking, her eyelids lifting fully as she realizes the black shadows moving in the corner are her curtains, and she’s awake, she’s alive, and the hands coiled around her throat are her own. On her arm is another hand and the thought snaps into her mind that it’s a demon, but she recognizes the voice when it speaks again.

 

“Ms. Mills.” She holds her hands up in surrender, palms outward as though she can simply keep panic at a considerable distance. Her inhale is shallow but necessary, filling her up with the familiar scent of her bedroom, and she greedily gulps another one. The shakes set her teeth chattering against one another, like ancient bones playing an eerie melody, and she drops her hands to her sides, taking a weary step backward, then another. A couple more and the side of the bed presses reassuringly against her calf muscle and she drops, dead weight, onto the softness at the edge. This time, her inhales are accompanied by exhales, long and low, and slowly her jaw settles into place.

 

He waits until he can hear the sound of her breathing steady enough before he makes any sudden movements. Half-seeing he moves toward the table beside her bed that he had glimpsed earlier, his hand grasping forward in the pitch black of the room before discovering the button on the bottom of the lamp, just like the one he had seen earlier. The light disrupts the night with such sudden sharpness that he covers his eyes with his hand, nearly moves to turn it off again before he hears a soft whimper come from the bed.

 

“No,” a plea. He maintains the distance as his hands move behind his back, linking while his form awkwardly bobbs forward on the balls of his feet. Her hands move over her face, a brief caress before covering completely, her spine curving as she bows underneath the pressure of her sorrow.

 

“A nightmare, I presume?” he begins, unsure of how to proceed but needing to speak, to push through the helplessness whirling within.

 

When her head only bobs up and down, in lieu of her usual snappy retort, he grasps the severity of the situation. Taking another step closer, he leans back against the bedside table, his arms crossing over his chest. Her head lifts, her elbows rest on her thighs and she presses her palms together, as though harnessing the upheaval between them.

 

“About Sheriff Corbin?” he presses, curling his toes together as he begins to feel the cold in the air. The loose pair of pants and t-shirt they purchased for him earlier are as soft as they are unfamiliar to him, and he questions why men prefer such clothes when they offer no protection against the elements. For a moment, he longs for the thickness of wool, the heaviness of fabrics manually made. The cloth of her own top is stained with a circle of sweat at the small of her back and it’s now that he finally remembers the impropriety of being in another woman’s room in the middle of the night. But these are strange times and this feels the least strange of all.

 

"He had two kids," she attempts to keep her voice calm despite the unsteady whirl of her emotions.  "Brennan and Catelyn. I went to their christening." Halfway through the last word, her voice cracks slightly and she has to dig her fingers into her palms until nails bite into tender skin to remind herself that this tragedy is real. The sentiment is a droplet and the ripples of it begin to unfurl between the cage of her ribs.

 

"He was my family." Only six syllables, but the acute anguish dripping from each speaks volumes. His arms uncross, falling to his sides as he leans in closer, watching the light play along the unadorned thickness of her hair.

 

“I understand,” he vocalizes, and her head lifts, oak brown gaze glittering with unfaced despair.

 

“No,” she accuses. She clings to the belief that a pain so poignant is personal. She does not have his blood or his name, but this suffering is her own. This is how two people belong to one another.

 

A wry smile, hinting of an improbable mix of amusement and agony, splays itself along his lips as he nods.

 

“I do, Lieutenant. I too have lost my family,” he reminds her gently. Her lips part to insist that Katrina is trapped in an another impossibility, their lives so very full of things that cannot be, but he continues.

 

“Shocking as it may be for you to believe, I imagined a different life for myself. I could see my future quite clearly after the war had been won, after the chaos of the universe on the brink of the apocalypse had receded into a vague recollection, my life. I lost my parents when I joined the American cause, and though I knew the price of the decision I made, it did not make it any easier to accept.”

 

He takes a breath, peering into the distance as though the wisps of the past were beginning to take form, shadows dancing to coalesce into the shapes of those he had once loved. Her eyes watch him as he tumbles headlong into his own history, wandering the labyrinthine trail of flashbacks.

 

“I lost my family. I lost my future. I lost possibilities and aspirations and dreams. My life was taken from me.” He shakes his head to clear the clatter, the sight of her watchful eyes anchoring him to the present, centering him here in this place, in this life. “I understand loss as intimately as you do, Ms. Mills.”

 

His honesty makes her feel suddenly bare, too visible, too vulnerable. Her reaction surprises her as the desire to return to him what he has given stirs inside of her. There’s something else there too, awakening within her as their gazes linger, as neither blinks or breathes for fear of breaking the delicate balance. She touches her fingertips lightly to her lips, trying to press the words that writhe inside her mouth back, but they spill out in a mumble.

 

“I hate this,” barely a fluttering on the air. He does not interrupt, knowing that silence is an invitation.

 

“I have a badge and a gun. I have an impeccable record of solved cases. I’m good at my job.”

 

She has to look away now, the oxygen clotting thickly in her lungs, regret flowing like lead inside her arteries.

 

“None of it mattered. In that barn, I had nothing. I could do _nothing_. I…” she holds her hands up, palms open and facing her as she waves them in a gesture that speaks of her frustration before she drops them to her lap.

 

“What could anyone have done?” Ichabod attempts, reaching blindly for some bit of comfort to offer her.

 

“Failure is exhausting.” She slides her feet of the ground, lifting her legs until her knees are resting against her chest, her bare arms slipping around them, as though she’s trying to gather the fragmented bits of herself back together.

 

“Ms. Mills, you have succeeded in saving Sleepy Hollow twice now. If you had not believed me and rescued me from the institution, if you had not been brave against the odds, the Headless Horseman would have his head and Serilda of Abaddon would be wreaking vengeance upon the town. You have not failed.”

 

Her glance lands on his eyelids, sees them lift slightly higher and for a split second, the realization that his eyes are a color caught between newly sprouted green leaves and the blueness of the ocean surf finding its way to the shore wriggles into her mind. But it’s fades as quickly as it arose and she’s left with the awareness that somehow, his perception of the situation has managed to ease some of her burden. It’s not validation or judgment, but the support of his presence.

 

“Our successes and failures never cancel each other out,” she comments. It’s her turn now, to be dragged under by remorse for prior failings. In an interrogation room that feels a thousand years away from today, she tried to protect herself and her sister by feigning ignorance, by pretending that the demons only existed in her wild imagination. She had failed then, betrayed her own blood and carried it with her as the years softened it to a dull disappointment. But the helplessness of seeing Sheriff Corbin’s disembodied skull had sharpened the guilt until it gnawed with renewed vigor.

 

“No, but over time, it gets easier to manage the burden of both,” he promises her. The simplicity of his statement makes her believe, the quiet confidence of knowledge personally gained.

 

She nods as her breath leaves her mouth, trying out a slow and crooked smile.

 

“I suppose we should get some sleep. I imagine there are other monsters headed to the tourist trap that is Sleepy Hollow,” she remarks.

 

The space between his dark brows furrows and it makes her grin symmetrical and sincere.

 

“Joke, Crane. But it is awfully late,” and a look at the bedside clock confirms her suspicions as it blinks 3:48 a.m. up at her boldly.

 

He rises gradually from the hardness of the side table and lets out a quiet groan from the uncomfortable soreness of sitting on the wood in an odd position. His steps are measured as his legs buzz with sensation returning to them and he pulls a face at her. Her laugh is soft, almost no more than an exhalation, and he’s suddenly aware that he’s only standing a few feet from her. He’s reminded again of customs and consequences, but all that recognition becomes blurry and the only thing in focus is the warmth returning to her eyes that makes them magnificent. Her face is upturned, chin lifted as she considers him, and the corners of her mouth straighten as the tension seems to roll from him body onto her.

 

The tone shifts as charged atmosphere begins to quietly hum around them, enfolding them in its embrace. There are no monsters here, no demons or devastation, only the peace of the world fast asleep and the sound of their mutual heartbeats thudding. Here, he only knows that the skin along her cheekbone is so unbearably delicate that it entices him to touch. She wore her bones with an unsullied grace. Here, she only knows that she could map out the coordinates of the tiny mole at the corner of his throat with exact precision. Along his skin there are constellations, and her fingers itch to trace them, but she stays still. One of them blinks, and the movements shatters the fragility of being entranced.

 

He clears his throat and she shifts back on the bed slightly, curling her fingers around the fabric of her comforter, pretending not to mind that it isn’t his skin. He has to take another step back to remind himself that it would be selfish, inappropriate, careless, and a dozen other errors in judgment if he simply indulged his curiosity and allowed his lips to become personally acquainted with her cheek. He has to blink a few more times to make him mind settle down and he nods at her finally.

 

“I hope your dreams are easier now,” he tells her, faint as a prayer.

 

“Yours, too.” She slides her legs back under the covers and allows her eyes to linger on him as he pads back to the couch,  far enough away to become a dark silhouette. She waits until his steps fade into the sound of her house settling back inside its wooden frame. Her hand reaches out and flicks the lights off, the room thrown back into blankness, her eyelids lowering fully. This time she glides fluidly into slumber, floats dreamily along the memory of the way his eyes darkened when he peered down at her in muted wonder.

 

In another room, Ichabod stretches languorously out onto the cheerful green couch in her living room, tucking his long limbs under the heavy warmth of too many blankets. He stares at the space formed between the curtain and the window, watches a tiny sliver of moonlight graciously dance along the planes of her polished hardwood floor. The parallel strikes at him, disconcerting him enough to make him run a hand through his hair, a gesture he’s picked up whenever he feels frustrated. He shakes his head at himself, at the absurdity of desire finding its way into his system despite the tumult of the past few days. Something darker than affection and deeper than friendship snuck its way inside of his mind, wedged between worries of centuries-old prophecies and fending off the harbingers of the apocalypse. It fluttered there, choppy at first before discovering a perfect rhythm and becoming tranquil. As with heartache, it seemed that once you came to terms with longing, it became easier to coexist with it. He drifts into sleep, his head pillowed on his hands and his thoughts tiptoeing towards the woman in the bedroom down the hall.

 

~

 

The next morning is bright, the sun unapologetically cheerful as it spills along her kitchen counter and sets the lighter tones in hair sparking like kindling. She grumbles as she reaches for the bag of dark roasted coffee beans and realizes that though it’s just a few inches from her fingertips, getting up on her tiptoes is too much effort for this morning. She turns to find Ichabod standing at the edge of her kitchen counter, his elbows resting on the surface as he blearily rubs a hand across his eyes, trying to wipe the sleep away, but failing miserably. He looks up at her and she wonders if the circles under her own eyes are as obvious as the ones under his. He looks so pitiful and exhausted as he frowns at her that the laugh is wonderfully, refreshingly spontaneous.

 

His expression is bemused before he grins at her in return, straightening as he steps forward, closer. Three steps, then two, then the air in his lungs is recycled. He’s invading her space, close enough that he could count each gloriously thick lash ringing her eyes, and her exhale comes out in a whoosh. The fluttering increases, the measured beats devolving to a cacophony, and here at the precipice, the air is thin and the mind reels with hope. It nearly blocks out all other thought, but his upbringing wiggles through and he steps back. He reaches up and grabs the bag of coffee beans before handing it to her and she holds it wordless, motionless, breathless.

 

He takes another step back and she inhales deeply, as though there isn’t enough air, greedily grasping for normalcy in the midst of everything else.

 

“I don’t think I can muster up the strength to make coffee this morning,” she offers, and he accepts.

 

“Does this mean what I believe it means?” he teases, another step back.

 

“We’re about to embark on our greatest feat yet, Crane.” The choice of moniker is deliberate.

 

“I can barely contain my excitement, Lieutenant.”

 

~

 

30 minutes later, he’s wheedling at her to explain what exactly the difference is between a white chocolate mocha and a caramel latte. She glares at him, pursing her lips together to hide the traitorous grin that threatens to peek through, before ordering an extra-shot latte for herself. Finally, he settles on a hazelnut macchiato and watches in fascination as the barista easily navigates the espresso machine. He asks an endless list of questions, including the location of these particular beans, how long they were roasted, and “what does this shiny lever do?” The employee nearly swats at his hand when Ichabod tries to reach behind the counter in his encounter and Abbie has to tug him back by his coat before she points at him.

 

“You’re just asking to get hurt.”

 

“I was merely attempting to understand how the monstrous machine worked,” he clarifies.

 

“I’ll let you read the Wikipedia page later.”

 

“The Wik...what?”

 

“It’s guaranteed to keep you out of trouble for hours at a time. It’s a modern encyclopedia, with diagrams and charts and everything.”

 

“I am opposed to the concept of an encyclopedia. They are, by nature, reductive and leave out a great deal in an effort to simplify the source material…”

 

Thankfully, he’s interrupted from continuing his diatribe by the arrival of his drink. Her warning about the scalding temperature is on the cusp of her lips when he pays the price of his impatience by singeing the edge of his tongue. She succeeds in strangling the laughter, but a snort slips out before she can stop it.

 

“I am so very glad my pain amuses you,” he mumbles under his breath.

 

“Only slightly,” she retorts.

 

He still holds the door open for her and pauses for her to proceed before him. Only two steps outside when she stops and surveys the morning sky, the blue ephemeral and unmarred by clouds. The scent of fall on the air is exquisite, the crispness offset by the rays of sun that fall against her forearms, and this is a hundred miles away from the abject terror of the night.

 

They climb into the patrol car in companionable quiet, each somehow knowing the steps of whose drink went in which holder, sliding their seatbelts in sync. The resemblance still draws out a pang, but the keen edge of Sheriff Corbin’s passing is the slightest shade more bearable now.  

 

Two stoplights later, her phone buzzes.

 

“Mills,” she answers.

 

And they’re off on another adventure.

 

~


End file.
